When he sat up, one of them landed on his finger.
‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’ said Rincewind.
The noise stopped. Up on the branches the birds looked at one another. There wasn’t much room in their heads for a new idea, but one had just turned up.
The sun dropped towards the horizon. Rincewind poked very cautiously inside a hollow log and found a ham sandwich and a plate of cocktail sausages.
Up in the trees the budgerigars were in a huddle.
One of them said, very quietly, ‘Wh . . . ?’
Rincewind lay back. Even the flies were merely annoying. Things began to sizzle in the bushes. Snowy went and drank from the tiny pool with a noise like an inefficient suction pump trying to deal with an unlucky turtle.
It was, nevertheless, very peaceful.
Rincewind sat bolt upright. He knew what was about to happen when things were peaceful.
Up in the darkening branches a bird muttered, ‘. . . pre’y b’y . . . ?’
He relaxed, but only a little.
‘. . . ’sa prit’ b’y . . . ?’
Suddenly the birds stopped.
A branch creaked.
The drop-bear . . . dropped.
It was a close relative of the koala, although this doesn’t mean very much. After all, the closest relative of the common elephant is about the size and shape of a rabbit. The drop-bear’s most notable feature was its posterior, thick and heavily padded to provide the maximum shock to the victim with the minimum shock to the bear. The initial blow rendered the prey unconscious, and then the bears could gather round to feed. It was a magnificent method of killing, since in other respects the bears were not very well built to be serious predators, and it was therefore particularly unfortunate for this bear that it chose, on this night, to drop on a man who might well have had ‘Victim’ written all over him but also had ‘Wizzard’ written on his hat, and that this hat, most significantly, came to a point.
Rincewind lumbered to his feet and ran into a few trees while he tried, with both hands on the brim, to lift his hat off his head. He managed it at last, stared in horror at the bear and its peculiarly confused expression, and shook it off and into the bushes. There were thumps around him as more bears, disoriented by this turn of events, hit the ground and bounced wildly.
In the trees the budgerigars woke up and, the simple message by now having had time to work its way into their brain cells, shrieked, ‘Who’s a pri’y boy, den?’ A madly tumbling bear whirled past Rincewind’s face.
Rincewind turned and ran towards Snowy, landing astride the horse’s back, or where its back would have been had it been taller. Snowy obediently broke into his arrhythmical trot and headed into the darkness.
Rincewind looked down, swore and ran after his horse.
He held on tight as Snowy ran on like some small engine, leaving the bouncing bears behind, and didn’t slow down until he was well away along the track and among bushes that were shorter than he was. Then he slid off.
What a bloody country!
There was a flurry of wings in the night and suddenly the bush was full of little birds.
‘Wh’sa pri’ boyden?’
Rincewind waved his hat at them and screamed a little, just to relieve his feelings. It didn’t work. The budgerigars thought this was some sort of entertainment.
‘Bug’roff!’ they twittered.
Rincewind gave up, stamped on the ground a few times, and tried to sleep.
When he awoke, it was to a sound very much like a donkey being sawn in half. It was a kind of rhythmic scream of pain, anguished and forlorn, setting the teeth of the world on edge.
Rincewind raised his head cautiously over the scrub.
A windmill was spinning in the breeze, turning this way and that as stray gusts batted its tail fin.
Rincewind was seeing more of these, dotted across the landscape, and thought: If all the water’s underground, that’s a good idea . . .
There was a mob of sheep hanging around the base of this one. They didn’t back off, but watched him carefully as he approached. He saw why. The trough below the pump was empty. The fan was spinning, grinding out its mournful squeak, but no water was coming out of the pipe.
The thirsty sheep looked up at him.
‘Er . . . don’t look at me,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m a wizard. We’re not supposed to be good at machinery.’
No, but we are supposed to be good at magic, said an accusing voice in his head.
‘Maybe I can see if something’s come loose, though. Or something,’ he muttered.
Impelled by the vaguely accusing woolly stares, he clambered up the rickety tower and tried to look efficient. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong, except that the metallic groaning was getting louder.
‘Can’t see any—’
Something that had finally been tortured beyond endurance broke, somewhere down in the tower. It shook, and the windmill spun free, dragging a broken rod which smashed heavily on the windmill’s casing with every revolution.
Rincewind half fell, half slid back down to the ground.
‘Seems to be a bit of a technical fault,’ he mumbled. A lump of cast iron smashed into the sand by his feet. ‘Probably needs to be seen to by a qualified artificer. Probably invalidates the warranty if I mess around—’
A cracking noise from overhead made him dive for cover, which in this case was a rather surprised sheep. When the racket had died away the windmill’s fan was bowling over through the scrub. As for the rest of it, if there had ever been any user-serviceable parts inside they very clearly weren’t in there any more.
Rincewind took off his hat to mop his brow, but he wasn’t quick enough. A pink tongue rasped across his forehead like damp sandpaper.
‘Ow! Good grief! You lot really are thirsty, aren’t you . . . ?’ He pulled the hat back on, right down to his ears just to be on the safe side. ‘I could do with a drink myself, to tell the truth . . .’
He managed, after pushing a few sheep aside, to find a piece of broken windmill.
Wading with some difficulty through the press of silent bodies, he made his way to an area that was a little lower than the surrounding scrub, and contained a couple of trees whose leaves looked slightly fresher than the rest.
‘Ow! G’d gr’f!’ chattered the birds around him.
Two or three feet should do it, he thought as he shovelled the red soil aside. Amazing, really, all this water underground when it never rained at all. The whole place must be floating on water.
At three feet down the soil was barely damp. He sighed, and kept going.
He was more than chest deep before a trickle oozed out between his toes. The sheep fought for the damp soil as he threw it up to the surface. As he watched, the puddle sank into the ground.
‘Hey, come back!’
‘H’y, c’m bik!’ screamed the birds in the bushes.
‘Shut up!’
‘Sh’tup! Wh’spr’boyden?’
He flailed at the ground with his makeshift shovel in an effort to catch up, and overtook the descending water after another few inches. He splashed on until he was knee deep, dragged his hat through the muddy liquid, pulled himself out of the hole and ran, water dribbling over his feet, until he could tip it into the trough.
The sheep clustered around it, struggling silently to get at the film of moisture.
Rincewind got two more hatfuls before the water sank out of sight.
He wrenched the ladder off the stricken windmill, threw it down the hole and jumped in after it. Damp soil fountained out as he dug, and each dripping lump attracted a mass of flies and small birds as soon as it hit the ground.
He managed another dozen or so hatfuls before the hole was deeper than the ladder. By now some cattle had lumbered up to the trough as well, and it was impossible to see the water for heads. The sound was that of a straw investigating the suds of the biggest milkshake in the world.
Rincewind took a final look down the hole, and as
he did so the last drop of water winked out of sight.
‘Weird country,’ he muttered.
He wandered over to where Snowy was standing patiently in the sparse shade of a bush.
‘You’re not thirsty?’ he said.
Snowy snorted and shook his mane.
‘Oh, well. Maybe you’ve got a bit of camel in you. You certainly can’t be all horse, I know that.’
Snowy moved aimlessly sideways and trod on Rincewind’s foot.
By noon the track crossed another one, which was much wider. Hoofprints and wheel ruts suggested that it got a lot of traffic. Rincewind brightened up, and followed it through thickening trees, glad of the shade.
He passed another groaning windmill surrounded by a cluster of patiently waiting cattle.
There were more bushes and the land was rising into ancient, crumbling hills of orange rock. At least it gets the wind up here, he thought. Ye gods, is a drop of rain too much to ask? You can’t never have any rain. Everywhere gets rained on sometimes. It has to drop out of the sky in order to get underground in the first place, doesn’t it?
He stopped when he heard the sound of many hoofbeats on the track behind him.
A mob of riderless horses appeared round the bend at full gallop. As they swept past Rincewind he saw one horse out in front of the others, built on the sleekest lines he’d ever seen, a horse that moved as though it had a special arrangement with gravity. The pack divided and flowed around Rincewind as if he were a rock in a stream. Then they were just a disappearing noise in a cloud of red dust.
Snowy’s nostrils flared, and the jolting increased as he speeded up.
‘Oh, yes?’ said Rincewind. ‘Not a chance, mate. You can’t play with the big boys. No worries.’
The cloud of dust had barely settled before there were more hoofbeats and a bunch of horsemen came around the curve. They galloped past without taking any notice of Rincewind, but a rider at the rear slowed down.
‘You seen a mob of horses go by, mate?’
‘Yes, mate. No worries, no worries, no worries.’
‘A big brown colt leadin’ ’em?’
‘Yes, mate. No worries, no worries.’
‘Old Remorse says he’ll give a hundred squids to the man who catches him! No chance of that, it’s canyon country ahead!’
‘No worries?’
‘What’s that you’re riding, an ironing board?’
‘Er, excuse me,’ Rincewind began, as the man set off in pursuit, ‘but is this the right road to Bugar—?’
The dust swirled across the road.
‘What happened to the well known Ecksian reputation for good-hearted friendliness, eh?’ shouted Rincewind to empty air.
He heard shouts and the cracking of whips from the trees on the high slopes as he wound into the hills. At one point the wild horses burst out on to the track again, not even noticing him in their flight, and this time Snowy ambled off the track and followed the trail of broken bushes.
Rincewind had learned that hauling on the reins only had the effect of making his arms ache. The only way to stop the little horse when he didn’t want to be stopped was probably to get off, run ahead, and dig a trench in front of him.
Once again the riders came up behind Rincewind and thudded past, foam streaming from the horses’ mouths.
‘Excuse me. Am I on the right road for—?’
And they were gone.
He caught up with them ten minutes later in a thicket of mountain ash, milling around uncertainly while their leader shouted at them.
‘I say, can anyone tell me—’ he ventured.
Then he saw why they had stopped. They’d run out of forwards. The ground fell away into a canyon, a few patches of grass and a handful of bushes clinging to the very nearly sheer drop.
Snowy’s nostrils flared and, without even pausing, he continued down the slope.
He should have skidded, Rincewind saw. In fact he should have dropped. The slope was almost vertical. Even mountain goats would only try it roped together. Stones bounced around him and a few of the larger ones managed to hit him on the back of the neck, but Snowy trotted downwards at the same deceptive speed that he used on the flat. Rincewind settled for hanging on and screaming.
Halfway down, he saw the wild herd gallop along the canyon, skid around a rock and disappear between the cliffs.
Snowy reached the bottom in a shower of pebbles and paused for a moment.
Rincewind risked opening an eye. The little horse’s nostrils flared again as it looked down the narrow canyon. It stamped a hoof uncertainly. Then it looked at the vertiginous far wall, only a few metres away.
‘Oh, no,’ moaned Rincewind. ‘Please, no . . .’ He tried to untangle his legs but they had met right under the horse’s stomach and twisted their ankles together.
He must be able to do something to gravity, he told himself, as Snowy trotted up the cliff as though it wasn’t a wall but merely a sort of vertical floor. The corks on his hat brim banged against his nose.
And ahead . . . above . . . was an overhang . . .
‘No, please, no, please don’t . . .’
He shut his eyes. He felt Snowy draw to a halt, and breathed a sigh of relief. He risked a look down, and the huge hooves were indeed standing on solid, flat rock.
There were no corks hanging in front of Rincewind’s hat.
In dread and slowly mounting terror, he turned his eyes to what they’d always thought of as upwards.
There was solid rock above him, as well. Only it was a long way up, or down. And the corks were all hanging upwards, or downwards.
Snowy was standing on the underside of the overhang, apparently enjoying the view. He flared his nostrils again, and shook his mane.
He’ll fall off, Rincewind thought. Any minute now he’ll realize he’s upside down and he’ll fall off and from this height a horse’ll splat. On top of me.
Snowy appeared to reach a decision, and set off again, around the curve of the overhang.
The corks swung back and hit Rincewind in the face but, hey, all the trees had the green bits pointing up, except that they were the grey bits.
Rincewind looked across the chasm at the horsemen.
‘G’day!’ he said, waving his hat in the air as Snowy set off again. ‘I think I’m about to have a technicolour snake!’ he added, and threw up.
‘’ere, mistah?’ someone shouted back.
‘Yes?’
‘That was a chunder!’
‘Right! No worries!’
It turned out that this piece of land was only a narrow spur between canyons. Another sheer drop loomed up, or down. But to Rincewind’s relief the horse turned aside at the brink and trotted along the edge.
‘Oh, no, please . . .’
A tree had fallen down and bridged the gulf. It was very narrow, but Snowy wheeled on to it without slowing.
Both ends of the tree drummed up and down on the lip of the cliff. Pebbles began to fall away. Snowy bounced across the gap like a small ball and stepped off on the far side just before the treetrunk teetered and dropped on to the rocks.
‘Please, no . . .’
There wasn’t a cliff here, just a long slope of loose rocks. Snowy landed among them, and flared his nostrils as the entire slope of scree began to move.
Rincewind saw the herd gallop past in the narrow canyon bottom, far below.
Large rocks bounded alongside him as the horse continued down in his own personal landslide. One or two jumped and bounced ahead, smashing on to the canyon floor just behind the last of the herd.
Numb with fear and the shaking, Rincewind looked further along the canyon. It was blind. The end was another cliff . . .
Stone piled into stone, building a rough wall across the canyon floor. As the last boulder slammed into place Snowy landed on top of it, almost daintily.
He looked down at the penned herd, milling in confusion, and flared his nostrils. Rincewind was pretty sure horses couldn’t snigger, but this one ra
diated an air of sniggerruity.
It was ten minutes later that the horsemen rode up. By then the herd was almost docile.
They looked at the horses. They looked at Rincewind, who grinned horribly and said, ‘No worries.’
Very slowly, he didn’t fall off Snowy. He simply swivelled sideways, with his feet still twisted together, until his head banged gently on the ground.
‘That was bloody great riding, mate!’
‘Could someone separate my ankles, please? I fear they may have fused together.’
A couple of the riders dismounted and, after some effort, pulled him free.
The leader looked down at him. ‘Name your price for that little battler, mate!’ said Remorse.
‘Er . . . three . . . er . . . squids?’ said Rincewind, muzzily.
‘What? For a wiry little devil like that? He’s got to be worth a coupla hundred at least!’
‘Three squids is all I’ve got . . .’
‘I reckon a few of them rocks hit him on the head,’ said one of the stockmen who were holding Rincewind up.
‘I mean I’ll buy him off’f you, mister,’ said Remorse, patiently. ‘Tell you what – two hundred squids, a bag of tucker and we’ll set you right on the road to . . . Where was it he wanted to go, Clancy?’
‘Bugarup,’ murmured Rincewind.
‘Oh, you don’t wanna go to Bugarup,’ said Remorse. ‘Nothing in Bugarup but a bunch of wowsers and pooftahs.’
‘’s okay, I like parrots,’ mumbled Rincewind, who was just hoping that they would let him go so that he could hold on to the ground again. ‘Er . . . what’s Ecksian for going mad with terrified fatigue and collapsing in a boneless heap?’
The men looked at one another.
‘Isn’t that “snagged as a wombat’s tonker”?’
‘No, no, no, that’s when you chuck a twister, isn’t it?’ said Clancy.
‘What? Strewth, no. Chucking a twister’s when . . . when you . . . yeah, it’s when you . . . yeah, it’s when your nose . . . Hang on, that’s “bend a smartie” . . .’
‘Er—’ said Rincewind, clutching his head.
‘What? “Bend a smartie” is when your ears get blocked underwater.’ Clancy looked uncertain, and then seemed to reach a decision. ‘Yeah, that’s right!’
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